All you dogs, this post has been a long time coming. Some of us go to visits with the veterinarian and are totally cool with it. Others of us go to the veterinarian and range from skittish to totally terrorized. Where do you fit in?

We can talk about just waiting in the waiting room or bump it up a notch to being in the examination room, or having some procedure done. I’ve seen many dogs hang out behind their parents’ legs in the animal hospital waiting rooms; I’ve tried to make friends with many of these dogs, to calm them down and offer friendship, but they’re just frozen in fear.

I’m on the cool dude side. When I had my injuries from being hit by the car, I had to have surgery, and xrays taken, and all sorts of procedures done on me, including having my bandages changed regularly, and my wounds cleaned. The doctors would ask my mom, “Does he need to be knocked out?” and except for actual surgery, and dental surgery, no, I didn’t.

It helped to have somebody just petting my head and saying “Good boy, Joey” and for splint changes I would need two technicians (my mom counted as “one”) but together we made it through everything, no “puppy’s little helper” required.

But many other dogs do. They have to take anything from a “calm down” pill to having an injection.

Let’s talk about this.

Do you think there’s a difference between how small and large dogs handle this?

I’m hanging around my bed. Mom says, “Joey. Come, Jo Jo.” I look at her, and she again says, “Jo Jo. Come.” Is there a reason I want to go there? It’s Mom, that’s a pretty good reason. And she’s calling me. So this time I get up and go there.

I’m interested in the food around her, the smells in the kitchen.

“Joey, you’re an old dog. Old dog.” That’s what she says. “At least you could go get a ball and play with it. Go get a ball and I’ll throw it to you.” I’m not interested, not now, at any rate. I’d rather just hang around, just stand around.

I don’t want to face it, but I’m slowing down. Dad doesn’t take me on the long runs any longer. He takes me on the short ones, however. On my way home and up the big hill, he says I’m practically walking, no longer running.

On warm days, I’m even more tired, panting my way home. On cold ones, I do a little better.

It doesn’t stop me from loving life and loving running. It doesn’t stop me from eagerly arising with Dad in the morning, when he comes to get me to run, and taking off from the gate. It doesn’t affect my attitude.

It does, however, slow me down. And I take an extra long nap after my run.

In July I celebrated my 12th birthday. But the thrill is definitely not gone.